


The Matsugane Family

by bible



Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Creampie, Exhibitionism, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Slight Impregnation Fetish, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 15:38:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20914478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: The first order of business—by all logical means, of course—is doing cocaine off of Hamura’s erection.At least, that’s what Hamura seems to think.





	The Matsugane Family

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carriejack03](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carriejack03/gifts).

“Show me those pink fuckin’ gums, bitch!”

Kengo shrieks as his mouth is plied open with thick, nicotine-stained fingertips, his teeth grazing the skin. His laughter rings nasty and hyenalike in the gambling den’s Chō-Han area. Whenever Hamura tackles him to the floor, his back hits the bamboo bowl and he can feel the knobby press of dice against his spine. He winces, and the reveal of his grit teeth gives Hamura just enough time to smear a line of cocaine over them. The white substance has been dipped onto his thumb and now he chalks it across him like he’s applying a smear of white makeup to some courtesan’s face.

“Aniki, you’re the worst!” Kengo whines, the chemical taste searing powerfully into where his teeth meet his gumline. It almost burns. This definitely is not the most efficient method for getting coked out of your mind, but if the kid wasn’t going to snort it with them, then Hamura will _make_ him.

“I’m just sharing the goods,” Hamura says, his voice level and serious despite the batshit insane position they’re in, Kengo pinned beneath his heavy forearms, Hamura laying atop him like some smirking cat. He straddles Kengo’s kicking legs and his knees press into the tatami mat. “Be grateful, this shit ain’t cheap. And I’m even sharing it. Need to learn to follow orders more, anyway.”

“Who the fuck’s gonna drive us home now, ojisan?”

Hamura sits up and blinks rapidly, as if the idea just occurred to him. Ozaki, sprawled upon his floor seat, nursing a cigarette, is also high out of his mind thanks to Hamura. He’s studying the crease of his suit pants where it meets the bend of his knee. Hamura’s pupils are blown and wet as a pornstar’s asshole. And now Kengo—designated driver and adorable little solider—will shortly experience the sweat-heart-race-paranoia-ecstasy effect that’ll make his vision dip and swirl, turning Kamurocho into some iridescent and feverish dream state impossible to navigate at the wheel.

“Whoops.”

Hamura’s laugh is deep and melodic, and he covers it with a hand, in the style of a smug princess type. Kengo whines beneath him, arching his back in an attempt to shove him off. The snake eyes pressing into the dip of his spine are beginning to bruise. It’s not a bad idea, he thinks vaguely, getting a victim to lay upon a bed of dice as punishment someday. He’ll have to keep it in mind in case he’s feeling particularly crafty and vengeful.

Aniki will be so proud of him.

Hamura gets off of him, and slumps upon the mat, knocking back the shogi screen a few inches with his shoulder blades. The paper glows with a soft gold, lit by lanterns from the unoccupied rooms, because the Matsugane Family demanded _some goddamn privacy_ after five hours of Chō-Han and a lot of lost yen. (The gun certainly helped sway both the hosts and the attendees of the shitty little den they’ve found themselves nestled in, across from what was once West Park.)

He’s sure the owners think they’re about to wreck the place, but Hamura’s got no plans to do anything of the sort. Sometimes a man just wants to do cocaine with his boys in the privacy of an abandoned building.

Ozaki, that large mass of power who slants a lazy stare at Kengo, who’s rubbing his own back with a scowl, says, “We’ll just take a cab.”

“That’s all well and good, but that doesn’t really bode well for the fucking _Ferrari_ Hamura-san’s brought along.”

Ozaki gives him a stare that carries all the threats he needs. He doesn’t feel like talking, would rather chew at a filterless cigarette.

Kengo dips his head in apology.

Hamura smirks, reaching in his suit jacket to harvest his cell phone.

“Gimme a second. I’ll get us a driver.”

*

Whenever Yagami enters the elevator leading to the third floor of the Dragon Palace to meet up with Hamura, he’s expecting a degree of safety. He’s familiar with the homeless that surround the Palace, kind witnesses who are willing to help him in case anyone decides to start shit. Yagami’s done a lot of weird stuff for the Matsugane Family before, and being a designated driver for the Captain isn’t necessarily _that_ out of left field. But the relative abandonment of the Palace kind of freaks him out, leading him to think it’s a trap of some sort.

So when he slides open the shoji screen to reveal three idiots, in various degrees of intoxication, playing some butchered version of Chō-Han, he relaxes a little.

“Holy shit, he’s tall!” Kengo cries from his place on his back, pointing at Yagami’s towering form in the doorway, “What’s _wrong_ with you?”

“That’s our driver, Kengo-kun,” Hamura laughs, standing up and brushing himself off, but there’s no lint or wrinkles in his impeccable suit to smooth out, anyway. Hamura grips Yagami’s chin in his hand and Yagami immediately winces at the contact. It usually takes Hamura a hot minute to get so touchy-feely. Suppose the cocaine is an aggravating factor.

“Hamura-san,” Yagami greets.

Kengo sits up, rubbing at his forehead and blinks as recognition slowly colors his features, “Oh, yeah. We just met. Lawyer, right?”

“Used to be,” Yagami says, inspecting Hamura’s smug, quirked lips, “You guys got fucked up, huh?”

Hamura hums.

Yagami shoves his hands in his pockets. There’s something _off_ about the whole thing. Hamura’s observing him thoroughly, as though he’s a scientific specimen. Kengo’s humor seems to have been fleeting, because he just glowers now, sitting on the floor mat with that plain, bulldog expression. Ozaki’s a silent and threatening silhouette behind the both of them, this back-up creature hunkered over, unmoving and sweaty.

But he’s strapped for money, and rent’s coming up. Giving them a ride for a few thousand yen certainly isn’t going to kill him.

“What is it, cocaine?”

“Hey, Ta-Bo,” Hamura says, his arm slithering around his shoulders to tug him close to his frame, “You wanna make a little more money?”

He knows that look. He knows that half-mast, seedy stare that Hamura flings his way.

In his vision, perhaps amplified by cocaine-induced, serotonin flow, Yagami’s eyes look so cute. Shiny, like slabs of crystal, like the glistening meat inside a beautifully sliced white fish. Hamura thinks it’d be a real shame if the Mole were to dig that slender needle of his into Yagami’s too-genuine, all-seeing private eye, and ruin his pupil. If only he could pry those eyelids apart, like Kengo’s lips, and dip his tongue across the delicate membrane of his eyeball.

What an awful idea. It makes his cock twitch.

“No,” Yagami pushes him away, slanting a glare that he hopes steels that lust clouding Hamura’s mind, “I know what you have in mind, you dirty ass man, and it’s not working.”

Where Kengo and Ozaki would normally get slapped for talking back to him like that, Yagami just gets a grin. The permissible insult only comes from two factors:

  1. Yagami could, and will, kick his ass if Hamura starts something.
  2. Yagami’s really pretty in the face, and it wouldn’t suit him to have a swollen eye.

(Well, maybe it’d suit him a little.

But that’s for another time.)

“Let me show you off.”

“Absolutely not.”

Hamura whispers, as if there’s any background noise, any chatter at all to keep Kengo and Ozaki from hearing him, “Come on. It’s been a while since you asked for it. Everyone already knows you get it from the Matsugane Family.”

Yagami averts his gaze. Humiliation has him burning and sickly. The presence of two other yakuza members that he _doesn’t_ have under his wing—strangers who may as well detest him, for all he knows—gives him chills.

“Stop it, Hamura-san. You’re high, just let me drive you home.”

“Right, right. I forgot that you’re all about being overtly morally sound. Don’t rattle off the statute not permitting me to fuck your ass.”

“Hamura!” Yagami hisses, shoving at him. Ozaki chuckles; a deep, discomforting sound.

“What? It’s not like they don’t know that you used to get it from that fucking meathead Kaito. And I’ve got no shame admitting that I’ve put it in you before. Hell, Kengo’s gotten it from me, too, so don’t feel too bad.”

Kengo doesn’t snap like Yagami, doesn’t blush, either. He just tilts his head and shows off a grin, a silver tooth shining like a flash of moonlight. Yagami almost wonders how he lost his tooth. The air is becoming cloying, warm, and there are three sets of eyes set on him—pupil-blown and scrutinizing. The palace’s emptiness adds to the trapped isolationism. Hamura’s hands slide down Yagami’s sides, too light and featherlike to be anything but invasive.

But more than all of that influencing him is the empty bulletin board at home.

He hasn’t had a case in weeks. He’s beginning to live off of eggs and green onions alone. He doesn’t think he can take the winter without that little heater in his office, and he isn’t about to go without running water.

The drive would cover his utility bill, sure, but—

Hamura is more loaded than ever before. He doesn’t know how he’s done it, but the new recruits like Kengo and Ozaki prove that his influence is more than reputation. There’s some monetary power sitting itself in Hamura’s corner. He can tell from the new suits, from the stylish office décor he’s seen in his drone’s camera, from the white powder caking Hamura’s nostril, that Hamura can certainly cover at least a few month’s rent.

So he ducks his chin atop Hamura’s shoulder, and whispers against the shell of his ear, “How much?”

*

The first order of business—by all logical means, of course—is doing cocaine off of Hamura’s erection.

At least, that’s what Hamura seems to think.

“I’ll pass,” Yagami says sarcastically, kneeling in front of Hamura’s spread legs, pumping his thick cock with a lob of spit as lubrication, “Very generous offer, but if you don’t remember, I’m kind of avoiding everything illegal, as my job tends to demand.”

“Save for aggravated assault, right?”

“All self-defense,” Yagami grins, and sticks his tongue out, feeling a little gross, a little exhibitionistic, but also a little rich. Hamura pays good, and Ozaki and Kengo watch him blow Hamura like a tiny audience for a porn studio. It’s kind of fun, really, being able to show off his skills like this to two dipshits who have no validity to smear his reputation. Yagami’s happy to impress.

The wet head of his cock is almost delicious to Yagami, seeping honey-thick precum and warm against his lips. It’s a cold day outside, and there’s something nearly relaxing about going down on Hamura’s dick that radiates heat and rubs up against Yagami’s cheekbone when he nuzzles it, the way he has for over ten years now, intermittent little flings that Yagami sometimes needs out of financial necessity, sometimes to sate the hypersexuality that strikes him at random times. He’s always been a bit of a player in general, but there’s something he can find with Hamura that he can’t find with the doting women and with adoring Kaito. Sometimes he likes it nastier than he likes it fond.

He doesn’t want to get into whatever Freudian psychology might come with daddy issues—he’s got so many father figures as is, one lost, two strikingly present—but the age difference between them appeals to some animal part of Yagami’s mind that he’ll never assess in the light of day.

“Have it your way,” Hamura says, noncommittal, and tucks the little plastic baggie of white into his matching suit jacket. Yagami hums and licks up his shaft, purposefully showy for his little audience. They aren’t about to make him feel small, aren’t about to get the pleasure of seeing him feel shame. He has no reason to feel bad about sucking cock, even if it’s yakuza cock. There’s no guilt in this for him.

“That said, isn’t pay in exchange for sexual favors technically illegal?”

Yagami looks up at him, swirling his tongue showily around the flexing glans, aromatic with skin-smell and sex. Hamura always smells masculine, but now it’s amplified by the proximity of Yagami to his balls. “End justifies the means,” Yagami purrs, sucking one into his mouth and nursing it. Hamura tosses his head back, his neck going taut, throat bobbing on a swallow.

“What is the end?” His voice comes out shakier than he’d like to admit.

Yagami pops off with a wet sound, drool slicking between his flexing sack, and he grabs it in his hand, squeezing just slightly. Hamura’s snarl tells him to back off, and he loosens his hold only marginally, “Covering my rent. Otherwise, I’d ask Matsugane to hook me up with a little futon in the office. And then you’d _never_ get me out of your hair.”

Ozaki laughs again, a low sound, and Kengo snickers. He fucks with one of his earrings, watching Yagami arch low and lap at his oyabun’s dick, and he says, “Fate worse than death. Hamura-san, show us how you fuck him.”

Hamura looks over. While he normally would never take a demand from some low kobun soldier, he finds the idea pretty appealing.

“Sure. You know he’s gotta be prepped first, though, yeah?”

Kengo blinks.

“So prep him.”

Yagami glares at Hamura, “Hey.”

“Don’t worry, Kengo’s good at this. Eat his ass, Kengo-kun. Show our little slut a good time.” Hamura reaches over him and pats heavily on Yagami’s ass, “Pretty cute, isn’t it? Even better without the jeans. Not that we don’t appreciate them. I like you in tight shit, Ta-Bo. Suits you better than, well, suits.”

Kengo-kun fishmouths for a second, and Yagami glares. Not that it comes off very threatening when he has a cock jutted up against his tan cheek, but, well, the intention is there. When Hamura lowly says, “_Now_,” they both realize they’ll have to get along.

“Friends are extra,” Yagami says, as Kengo knee-walks behind him and peels off his tight jeans. Ozaki’s eyes never leave them, intense and piercing, a mute giant. He has a fresh cigarette between his fingers, and the smoke curls like incense around the hall. His arm rests over his knees.

Yagami straightens up for a second, pulling away from the humid comfort of Hamura’s crotch, to help Kengo get his jeans off. He strips off the jacket and t-shirt while he’s at it, happy to show off his firm and well-built frame, sandy-colored and smooth.

He knows how good he looks.

He bends back down between Hamura’s spread legs and takes his shaft into his mouth easily, with the practice only someone familiar with doing this has. His lips are full and dark as a ripe berry as it goes down, wetting the curved erection with abundant spit. Hamura always gets him drooling, all sharp angles and style and menace. He shouldn’t be as attractive as he is, but there’s something in him that has Yagami’s blood spiking.

It helps whenever Hamura’s little underling spreads his cheeks, squeezing each handful tightly, and laps over his asshole with the wet flat of his tongue. There’s the touch of something metallic against the already-twitching furl of muscle, and he realizes that he has a tongue piercing. It feels so goddamn incredible that Yagami makes a mental note to jump into Kaito’s bed with a needle and a piercing as soon as he can.

Hamura seems to notice how much he likes it by the reverberations around his cock from Yagami’s moan. Yagami can already feel himself beginning to harden.

“That’s good,” Hamura says, staring at one pretty boy eat out another. All the money in the world is worth it to orchestrate this shit. He gives Ozaki a look and jerks his head up in a nod. “You can pull your dick out, if you want.”

Ozaki waves him off, brings the cigarette to his lips and continues to study them with that same heavy, inscrutable expression.

Yagami laps at the underside of his cock, eyes turned up at him. It’s so good, his mouth on cock, his ass being kissed and licked over, hole steadily softening up under the underling’s ministrations. Kengo eases a thumb against him, as if testing him, and smirks when Yagami’s hungry body swallows him up all too easily. He rubs the saliva into the little wrinkles around his hole, and spits once, noisily, hitting his mark. The glob sinks into Yagami’s body.

He’s always had good aim.

He slaps his ass once, and Yagami gives a half-indignant whine around his mouthful of cock. He slurps on Hamura’s penis, laves over it, gives a showy swirl around the head, before he pulls off.

“Put it in me before you cum down my throat.”

Hamura looks _wrecked_. Surely the coke is the only thing keeping him from nutting right inside Yagami’s plushy and warm mouth, stifling his orgasm.

He stands up and places his shoe on Yagami’s back, pushing him down onto the tatami. Yagami grunts softly, the air pushed out of him as his chest is lowered. His nipples brush the cool wood and he sighs, turning his face towards Kengo and Ozaki, cheek squished up on the ground.

“Keep those hips up.”

Yagami’s _presenting_ himself, legs spread wide and ass on display, his hole winking and spit-slicked, his cock hard, hanging untouched between his thighs that are strung tight with both muscle and anticipation.

“You know, I’ve been thinking… Ozaki, you got a sister, right?”

Hamura says this as casual as he might say, _‘Do you have the accountant’s phone number?’_

Ozaki hums his affirmative.

“She’s tall, yeah? Why don’t you bring me one of her outfits? Maybe her old uniform, if she still has it. I’d like to dress this boy up sometime.”

Yagami’s face burns and he darts his eyes away when Ozaki’s cruel mouth curls in a smirk.

“He’s quite pretty for a boy, isn’t he?” he finally says.

“Damn right,” Hamura kneels behind him, holding Yagami’s hips in a bruising grip. “What do you think, Ta-Bo? How about we put you in a schoolgirl uniform, give you some fake lashes, paint your nails? I like it when my girls doll up for me.”

“Oh, Hamura-san,” Yagami’s legs spread impossibly further, and he reaches back to tug open his ass cheek, showing off the gape of his cunt, spit-wet from his loyal little errand boy, “Things are sounding pretty serious… What are we?”

He bats his eyelashes a few times.

Hamura laughs humorlessly and pushes the head of his dick against his asshole, “Very funny.”

All too quickly, he impales Yagami on his thick dick, and Yagami’s next quip is literally thrust out of him, words transformed into a tight exhale.

Usually Hamura goes slower, lets him ride it out, lets Yagami moan and work his hips back and even strokes his back as he does it. But this is a borderline _brutal_ penetration, and Yagami hiccups out a gasp-sob as he’s pushed beyond his limits, the flare of where Hamura is thickest just _jutting_ against the puffy rim of his hole before it stretches past and he’s fully enveloped in Yagami’s tight heat.

“A—_ahh_—hurts…”

“That’s right. ‘s’what you fucking get,” he slurs, slapping Yagami’s ass hard, “For being so eager to show off in front of the Matsugane Family.”

Yagami clenches up and whines, and then whispers, “Again.”

Hamura’s fingers thread through his hair, yanking him up from where Yagami is trying to hide his face in the crook of his crossed arms, “What was that?”

“Hit me again.”

“Of course, he’d like it,” Kengo points out, his own voice sounding strained, like _he’s_ the one getting fucked, “Hamura said you had a fighty streak. I betted you’d be a masochist.”

Hamura’s palm connects with his ass again, watches the flesh jiggle slightly, watches it catch the red mark of his hand. Yagami opens his mouth and lets the word fall out like he’s being paid… And, well—he is. “_Fuck_…”

And Yagami clenches up so good around his cock when he’s smacked, that it gets Hamura to do it again, until Yagami’s straining his legs and huffing, working his hips back, his insides twitching.

It’s all too little lube, as spit only goes so far, and the dry drag outwards that Hamura takes makes Yagami’s throat go tight, makes his eyes sting a little in discomfort. But that’s quickly mitigated by the sheer pleasure of Hamura bending over him, chest pressed to his sweating back, and jamming his hips forward, the head of his wet cock kissing his prostate from the inside. A ton of little nerve endings feel alighted, and he cries out.

Hamura pounds him ruthlessly, his fingers digging little purple and blue kisses into the jut of his hipbones, his whole frame covered in a sheer layer of sweat from the cocaine and the slut arching beneath him, yowling for it like a cat in heat. He should have removed his suit, he thinks distantly as he begins to feel his armpits, the dip of his spine, prickle with sweat. His slacks are still bunched around his knees as he raws Yagami.

“If only he really was a girl,” Ozaki muses, voice somehow level and unaffected despite the show in front of him. (Kengo, for his part, isn’t nearly so composed. He’s on his hands and knees, staring at Yagami’s face with wide, curious eyes, lips parted in approval.) Ozaki’s voice is chillingly low, interrupting the _slap-slap-slap_ of Hamura fucking Yagami’s tight ass into oblivion. Yagami scrabbles his hands along the floor, grapples needily at nothing, eyes sealed shut. He wishes Ozaki and Kengo would just bat away whatever yakuza-based honor and conservation they have right now and pin him down, feel him up, stick their dicks in him as well. He gets drunk off this, off of being treated like a toy—like a whore.

“Then you could get him pregnant.”

The idea is so stupid, so bizarre and unrealistic, but it has Hamura’s eyes flying from where his cock meets the pink of his hole to fall on Ozaki’s line of vision for a moment. Then he seals them tight and pictures it—an impossible image of shooting his load in a cervix that Yagami doesn’t have.

Maybe it’s the cocaine, or maybe he’s really just some huge pervert, but the thought is so appealing that it has him busting his load inside of him instantaneously. He throws his head back and groans, lets himself be as loud as he wants as his balls flex and pump their wad into Yagami’s tight channel.

If only it would catch, or something. Not for family’s sake, just for the permanency of ownership. He’s a man of material, after all, and claiming Yagami in that sense is somehow weirdly alluring.

He sighs and plugs his hips up, orgasm making his toes curl inside his neat, polished shoes.

Maybe he’ll make Yagami lick them one day.

“You feel that?” Hamura says, pulling his cock out and replacing it with his fingers, pushing his cum around inside of Yagami’s sensitive inner walls, stroking him from the inside. It’s sticky and it’ll be an unpleasant experience to wash out. As such, he tries to push it deeper. He turns his wrist, curls his fingers in an attempt to press on his prostate. God, Yagami’s burning up inside. “Feel my cum makin’ you full?”

Yagami whines and his hand goes to his own neglected erection, tugging on it only once, twice, the warm, curved flesh sliding in his too-dry grip, and he’s cumming all over the floor, like some dog. His legs spread, his eyes seal themselves shut tight. His forehead digs into the tatami and his voice catches on a spit-strung half-sob, Hamura’s fingers still feeling him out from the inside like he’s inspecting for a medical issue.

“Cute boy,” Hamura chuckles lowly as Yagami slumps in his own mess, Yagami’s limbs worn and shaky, tired from exertion. His face is burning up, his skin glowing with warmth, all rose petal sweet, asshole blossom-cream full.

He pants, sprawled there, leaking with it.

As Hamura stands up, he offers his hand to Kengo.

Kengo stares for a moment, and then immediately understands. His lips fall open and he sucks the cum off of his fingers, wet and obedient. They taste very—human. Salt and sweat a strange, metallic taste, almost chemical-like.

No—maybe that’s the cocaine.

Hamura loves his boys.

Ozaki puts his cigarette out in the bamboo bowl and says, “Yagami, you should teach a class. My wife could learn a thing or two.”

“Alright,” Yagami croaks from the tatami, watching Hamura pull his slacks up around his softening cock, a crocodile-skin belt tightening his waistband over the neatly-pressed shirt. “Pay me and I’ll think about it.”

He barely remembers how he ended up here, with these three cokeheads all staring at him with curious, sated looks. He holds himself up on shaky, strong forearms, and asks as composed as he can, “Where are the car keys?”

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this instead of studying for my law exam WHOOPS
> 
> [take my carrd](https://bibles.carrd.co/)


End file.
